


Old and New

by junetangerine (culuyetille)



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Miscommunication, TBI, Traumatic Brain Injury, a.k.a. the backbone of Bruce and Dick's relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 19:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culuyetille/pseuds/junetangerine
Summary: Objectively speaking, he knew the man wasn’t infallible or indestructible (heaven knew he’d picked enough fights over it, Bruce insisting on patrolling even when he could barely stand on his own), but the prospect that he might not bounce back into the brilliant steamroller of a man that Dick loved in more ways than was appropriate or healthy was terrifying.Not as jarring as the Twilight Zone experience of having Bruce look openly delighted to see him.“Dick!”It was all Dick could do to remain frozen in place while Bruce crossed the distance between them andjust kept going, right into Dick’s personal space and then closer, until his mouth was against Dick’s. It was short, just a firm press of lips, but enough to turn Dick’s world on its head.---A head injury leaves Bruce confused. He seems to believe he and Dick are a couple. Dick doesn't have it in him to say otherwise.





	Old and New

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is what I've been doing while I should be working on [Here goes nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15787941). Or on my thesis. *grimaces*  
> Anyhow, I had fun writing this and I hope you'll enjoy the read :)

Dick knew there was something terribly wrong when he saw Tim waiting for him at the docking station in Titans Tower, in civilian clothes and looking grim. He didn’t even bother with decon procedures and instead made a beeline for the current Robin.

“Just tell me.”

“We should go somewhere more private.”

“ _Tim_ ,” it was part growl and part plea. 

“Nobody died.”

Dick let out a breath that had been turning into ice in his lungs.

“Now where can we talk?”

He led Tim to the nearest empty room and closed the door.

“It’s Bruce.”

Dick’s chest contracted around his heart.

“A bullet grazed the side of his head. He lost balance and fell two stories into hard pavement. The emergency beacon was damaged. It was a couple hours until we managed to locate him and get him to a hospital. He was out for nine days.”

 

Dick was foaming at the mouth. Why the hell hadn’t anybody contacted him? Only because he was a couple light years away and communication was patchy at best, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t have… done something stupid to try and rush back. _The risks outweigh the benefits_ , said the Bruce that lived in his head sternly.

 

“What else?” pressed Dick. All of them had had close calls and serious injuries. Tim wouldn’t be here for Dick’s signature on a ‘Get well soon’ card.

“Since he woke up, he’s been… different.”

Shit. Shit shit shit _fuck_. Not Bruce. ‘ _Your mind is your greatest weapon_ ’, he’d told Dick so often. Dick’s panic must be showing on his face, for Tim rushed to clarify, “He’s not... if you don’t know him that well, he could almost pass for normal. It’s…” Tim chewed on his bottom lip while he looked for the best way to say what was coming next. “He remembers some stuff wrong, and other things not at all. He knows he’s Batman, and he knows us. But he was confused at the Manor’s post-earthquake layout.”

It was only then that Dick got his head out of his ass enough to notice the dark circles under Tim’s eyes. He looked like he’d been stretched thin for too long. Dick immediately pulled his little brother in for a hug. Tim relaxed a fraction, rested his forehead against Dick’s shoulder.

“We’ll figure it out. Thanks for coming to tell me.”

 

(--^^--)

 

Tim filled him in on the way to the Manor. In many ways, it seemed that Bruce was still himself: he was the world’s most difficult patient and not happy at being prescribed rest and a weekly battery of neurological exams for the foreseeable future. He was running himself into the ground with practically round-the-clock PT, eager to get back on the streets even though he had yet to conquer the stairs to his bedroom. He’d been rude to Clark at the hospital and tasked Tim with not allowing the council to snatch Wayne Ent. away from him on incapability grounds.

However, there were significant changes. For one, Bruce couldn’t drive. The alarm had blared at 3 a.m. in Alfred’s quarters, only for them to find the car with its nose against a stalactite and Bruce inside the cockpit, suited and livid. He’d grudgingly ceased to try and sneak past the blockades after that, focusing all of his determination on the recovery exercises.

“Ouch,” said Dick sympathetically. Bruce loved driving. He had Alfred chauffeur him around in the Bentley for playboy Brucie’s appointments, but his extensive collection of sportscars told the true love story of Bruce Wayne, speed, control and independence. Driving the Batmobile was a Robin’s highest treat, rarer than a compliment even.

But the worst of Bruce’s cognitive losses weren’t related to his skillset. He had, for instance, no recollection of what had happened to Babs at the Joker’s hands.

“He was so shocked when he first saw her, he went catatonic for hours. We had to rush him back to the hospital.”

The doctor in charge (a friend of Leslie Thompkins) had painted a bleak picture of the fragile state of Bruce’s psyche and advised them to try and avoid further distress.

“She said that his brain is trying to put itself back together, and that to keep second-guessing everything takes up a lot of energy, so we’re supposed to protect it as much as we can, even if it means telling him some white lies. It’s a ‘Good Bye Lenin!’ situation.”

Somewhere, some cruel deity was laughing their ass off at the irony of Bruce Wayne being repeatedly lied to by those closest to him for his own good. So far, the biggest obfuscation was to let Bruce continue to believe that Jason had dropped off the radar after an argument and was cooling off somewhere in Central America, rather than truly _gone_. Babs and Tim had pulled an all-nighter editing files to back that one up.

 

“And what do the doctors say about his recovery?”

Tim’s mouth curled downwards, and Dick wondered if he had any idea how much he’d come to resemble Bruce at times.  

“They don’t want to commit to anything. They say he can either stay as he is, get it all back, or that it can land somewhere in-between. If I hear the phrase ‘only time will tell’ one more time, I’m going to punch an upstanding citizen.”

Dick squeezed Tim’s shoulder.

“How are you, Cass and Alfred holding up?”

 

Tim was silent as he overtook a truck and mulled his answer.

 

“Cass was shaken at first. She wasn’t around for Bane.” Translation: she’d never seen Bruce weakened. “But she doesn’t seem too worried now. Says his body remembers everything, so it can’t be lost for good. She’s been sparring with him a lot, and by sparring, I mean kicking his ass. He’s been surprisingly good about it.”

 

Alfred, on the other hand, was having a rough time. At the hospital, they had needed to bodily drag him from Bruce’s bedside for a shower and something to eat. Even back at the Manor, he’d upgraded from the occasional dry remark on Bruce’s poor self-care habits to plain hovering and fussing, with lethal glares to anyone who dared suggest he tone it down.

 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you said nothing about yourself.”

Tim shrugged.

“I guess we’re too used to him always knowing what to do.”

 

It was true. Even though the squad sometimes mutinied, during a crisis they could all rely on Bruce’s steady commands over their earpieces, pushing them hard but ultimately guaranteeing that everything would be fine.

 

“Sorry I wasn’t around.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

 

The last minutes of the drive were spent in silence as Dick tried to absorb everything and prepare himself to face Bruce. Objectively speaking, he knew the man wasn’t infallible or indestructible (heaven knew he’d picked enough fights over it, Bruce insisting on patrolling even when he could barely stand on his own), but the prospect that he might not bounce back into the brilliant steamroller of a man that Dick loved in more ways than was appropriate or healthy was terrifying.

 

Not as jarring as the Twilight Zone experience of having Bruce look openly delighted to see him.

“Dick!”

It was all Dick could do to remain frozen in place while Bruce crossed the distance between them and _just kept going_ , right into Dick’s personal space and then closer, until his mouth was against Dick’s. It was short, just a firm press of lips, but enough to turn Dick’s world on its head.

Bruce’s smile faltered as he caught on to the surprise on Alfred’s and Tim’s faces. In a split-second, Dick made the first in a series of disastrous decisions: he grinned brightly and took Bruce’s hand in his own.

 

“It’s still pretty recent, we hadn’t really told anybody yet.” 

“Hm.” Bruce’s frown of mild contempt for socialization guidelines was achingly familiar.

“It doesn’t matter. How are you doing?”

Bruce’s jaw gained the mulish set of whenever he was asked that question with good cause.

“I’m fine.”

Dick had yet to let go of Bruce’s hand. He irrationally felt that if he did, he would not be allowed to touch it ever again. His eyes roamed over Bruce, over the short hair that had yet to grow back from the surgical shave, drinking up the sight of him alive and conscious. Bullet. Fall. Out for over a week. He’s… different.

 _He just laid one on you, Grayson. If that doesn’t spell out brain damage, nothing does_ , said Dick’s inner Jason, rude and accurate as usual.

 

“Tim says you’re recovering inhumanly fast.”

“Not fast enough.”

 

Dick snorted softly.

“You’ll get there.” He turned to face the others, who had managed to compose their features into something marginally less scandalized by his and Bruce’s… proximity. “What’s for dinner? If I never see another ration bar in my life, it’ll be too soon.”

 

Once they were all sitting in front of bowls of steaming soup, Dick took it upon himself to keep the conversation afloat and began telling them all about what he had gotten up to during his trip. His efforts were pretty much wasted on his audience – Tim’s eyes were glued to his meal, Alfred’s silence was heavy and left no doubt as to his feelings on Dick’s impromptu decision, and Bruce had more pressing concerns.

 

“I need you to suit up. Batman hasn’t been seen in too long.”

 

Oh, classic. Dick had just returned from weeks on another sector of the galaxy, hadn’t even showered yet and Bruce wanted him on duty. Any other time, he would be pissed. But right now, with Bruce’s near-death and possibly permanent damage looming over them and Dick just having signed up for whatever was in store for him with Bruce’s kiss, an opportunity to fly and punch some deserving scumbags sounded _fantastic_.

 

(--^^--)

 

For once in their lives fate has granted them the mercy of one crisis at a time, and Batman’s special brand of enemies are either locked up or laying low for the time being. Tonight’s patrol will consist mostly of dealing with organized crime.

The drive into the city is silent, and for the next hours all Batman and Robin discuss is the night’s work. Bruce is on comms, wanting so badly to be a part of patrol that nobody has the heart to resent his micromanaging. Around 2 a.m. Alfred comes to collect him and will not hear about catching up on sleep during the day (“It’s not as restorative, as you well know, Master Bruce. The priority is your recovery”). To Dick’s utter surprise and concern, Bruce complies with only token protests. The shrug-and-sigh combo he gets from Tim in response to his baffled face tells him that that’s one of the things Tim had meant when he said Bruce had woken up different.

 

For the next hours, there’s less technique and more raw force to Batman’s blows.

 

Later, when they’re perched on a rooftop with the first hues of dawn tinging the sky, Dick decides it’s time. He elbows Tim and signs, _“Ask away.”_

 

Cass can speak, but she prefers to sign, so they all know ASL. It’s proven damn convenient more than once.

 

_“Do you know how weird it is to get that from Batman?”_

 

Dick stifles a snicker, which would also be highly out of character for the suit, even when provoked by a Robin’s wit (Bruce’s amusement at Dick’s better quips had always been one of his hardest-earned achievements). After a moment, Tim’s expression grows serious. It’s about to begin for real.

 

 _“You do know that you don’t **have** to do it, right?” _The sign for ‘have’ stretched on for a couple seconds, clearly conveying Tim’s emphasis.

 

Over the course of the past year, Tim has joined the bandwagon of people that occasionally try to convince Dick that he tries too hard to please Bruce. Dick supposes it’s a good sign; a Robin needs to have a degree of independence. And he gets where Tim is coming from, he really does. If it were Tim or Cass in the crosshairs of Bruce’s confusion, he’d be… Gah, just thinking about it makes his stomach churn. So yeah, he owes Tim some reassurance, and incidentally, because he’s not Bruce, he might just tell the truth.

 

_“I didn’t think I’d ever need to have this conversation with you, but. Believe me, it’s really not a problem.”_

 

Dick counts down in his head, three, two, and there it is, Tim’s expression morphing from concern to shock as the implication sinks in, then hurriedly into an attempt at neutrality.

It feels strange, to finally admit to something he’s fought so hard to choke. Dick has been attracted to Bruce for a long, long time, and has been in love with him for a respectable (more like worrisome) number of years, but he’d honestly never expected anything to come out of it other than life-long yearning and some terribly guilty jerking off.

 

 _“And don’t worry, there are some lines we’re not going to cross,”_ he promises. It’s a sketchy situation. He’s not sure Bruce is capable of consent at the moment. He might never return to who he was before the accident, but until they’re sure that’s off the table, they have to act as if full recovery is just around the corner.

To Dick’s surprise, the look Tim gives him isn’t repulsed or menacing, but sympathetic instead. Then, to everyone’s relief, Robin lives up to the time-honored tradition and steers the conversation away from feelsy feels.

 

_“Man, you just broke character again. What’s next, joking?”_

_“Just you watch, by the end of the week I’ll have turned his reputation around. This year Batman will be voted nicest JLA member rather than resident sourpuss.”_

 

Tim’s smile widens, and Dick feels slightly less certain this will be an unmitigated disaster.

 

(--^^--)

 

He was, of course, wrong about that. It is a disaster. Of epic proportions. Courtesy of Richard Grayson’s world-famous lack of self-preservation when it comes to a certain eccentric billionaire.

 

As he’s making for his Manor bedroom after patrol, he sees the telltale sliver of light leaking from under Bruce’s door and, like the idiot he is, walks in. Bruce is sitting up with a laptop and looking absolutely unrepentant. Dick comes to stand by him, hands on his hips; as expected, he’s going through the night’s reports.

 

“Don’t think I won’t tell on you,” he says with a grin. He’s so frigging _happy_ to see that Bruce’s trademark stubbornness hasn’t gone anywhere.   

 

Bruce replies with “I wanted to be awake when you got back,” which wouldn’t be half as bewildering if he wasn’t looking at Dick with what can only be described as hunger.

 

And even though Dick knows that it is a terrible, terrible move, he plants his hands on the mattress and leans down for a kiss, because he’s human and Bruce could have died or become permanently bed-ridden and instead he’s here, awake and _wanting_ Dick long after the latter had incinerated any hope of ever being reciprocated.

Bruce buries his fingers into Dick’s hair and demands entrance to his mouth. He claims it with the resolve Dick always knew he’d have at times like this, leaving them both breathless. He then begins to nibble at Dick’s chin, and that’s when Dick knows that if he doesn’t slam the brakes right now, he won’t be able to do it at all. He gently backs away until he’s sitting on the bed and offers a reassuring smile to Bruce, who looks all but ready to devour him. Dick chooses to willfully ignore the high likelihood that the semi beginning to show through his sweatpants has been noticed by the World’s Greatest Detective and instead focuses on saying something that might make their situation manageable, if only barely.

 

“I don’t know how much you remember, B, but things between us are _very_ recent.” Not a complete lie. Good going, Grayson. “We still haven’t gotten around to…” He gestures vaguely but Bruce gets it, judging by how he pulls back a fraction of an inch. “And I think we should take things slow until you’re back on your feet. Okay?”

 

Bruce agrees, even though his eyes are still dark. Making the first wise call of the day, Dick retreats to the relative safety of his own, separate bedroom.

 

(--^^--)

 

If keeping his feelings for Bruce in check wasn’t easy when they were a dirty secret, to rein them in with the man actively engaged in being with him is like fighting the rising tide.

Weeks go by and Dick hangs on by the skin of his teeth, often wondering for how long he’ll have the strength to stave off both himself and Bruce. The only thing that helps are the many little times a day he’s reminded of Bruce’s convalescent state; surely, a man who just spent five minutes doing mental gymnastics to remember the word ‘saucer’ can’t be considered fit to determine whether or not it’s a good idea to engage in a relationship with his former ward (pro tip: it’s not).

 

However, the time finally comes when the only thing effectively preventing Bruce from wearing the cowl is his decision not to. That night they head out together, Robin’s cape flying over the motorcycle not far behind the batmobile.

Dick had missed the lightness of his domino mask and the wind on his hair, but most of all he’d missed Bruce’s bodily presence by his side. Neither he, Tim nor Cass are very subtle about coddling Bruce, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him. In fact, he takes to the night with such feral joy that it leaves Dick dizzy with tenderness and more than a little turned on. Either by smarts, intuition or plain good timing, Tim decides to head straight back home. Batman and Nightwing’s drive back is long and loaded. Dick is at the wheel. At one point, Bruce rests a hand on his thigh; no pressure, just weight and heat.

When they get to the Cave, however, Bruce pulls his usual stunt and disappears. Dick takes three deep breaths and starts the process of removing his suit, boots first, despondently considering just how cold his shower will have to be this time. The armor’s off and he’s working on the safety clasps of his upper body undersuit when Bruce materializes in front of him and asks, “Let me.”

Dick does.

He lets Bruce tug off the fabric. He kisses back intently as Bruce claims his mouth, runs his big, warm hands over the newly bared skin. He lets Bruce undo the other half of his suit, watches as the man crouches down to pull it off, dragging everything else along. A moan gets caught in his throat as Bruce leans forward just so, wraps lips around the head of Dick’s erection, runs his tongue all over and around it, all the while giving Dick a scorching stare. He helps Bruce out of his own undersuit and lets the man lead him under the shower spray, press their bodies together, ravage his mouth. He’s seen Bruce naked more times than he can count but never like this, hot and flushed and hard. He helpfully repositions one leg when Bruce’s fingers slide down the small of his back and between his cheeks, slick with what is probably Vaseline from the medical cabinet and the reason for Bruce’s vanishing act; then one fingertip enters him slowly and Dick’s deductive capabilities are out the window because _Bruce is prepping him in the Cave showers_ , fulfilling one of his oldest fantasies. He moans and tightens his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, wraps one hand around Bruce’s cock to work both of them up. There are two fingers inside him now. The angle isn’t great and it’s been a while since Dick has done this, but that’s all moot and he straight up keens when Bruce brushes against his spot, then does it again and again, purposefully and eating up Dick’s helpless moans.

He lets Bruce pick him up, wraps his legs around the older man’s waist. Bruce is watching him closely now, eyes trained on Dick’s face as he lines himself up and pushes in. Dick exhales as he struggles to accommodate him and not have a heart attack over the fact that they’re actually doing this, he and Bruce.

Bruce bottoms out. It feels deep and thick. Dick feels a little lost and a little traitorous as he remembers that this isn’t really _his_ Bruce. Then Bruce starts moving and all Dick feels are sparkles.

 

(--^^--)

 

Over the next few days, it’s hard to pry Dick and Bruce apart. Dick feels very guilty, but also so very happy that he sometimes forgets about the other part.

 

(--^^--)

 

When Bruce wakes up, Dick is asleep by his side.

 

It is early morning, Bruce’s body feels loose with the languor that follows sexual activity and _Dick is on his bed_.

Bruce jumps to his feet as though the mattress was on fire. He’s naked, and there are _memories_ , jumbled and scattered and overwhelming. His lips on Dick’s throat. Moans. Dick hooking one ankle over Bruce’s shoulder; his bright, bright smile.

Good God.

Bruce pulls on clothes. Sneaks out. Makes for the North Wing. It’s drafty and prone to mold despite Alfred’s best efforts.

He can’t risk running into anyone. Not like this.

He knows he’s confused. He remembers falling, then hurting alone for a very long time. He remembers losing things; how to side-step a punch, his good aim, certain words. Clark and Queen walking on eggshells around him, stealing glances at his close-cropped hair. Alfred double-checking his medicine schedule. Cassandra beckoning him to go again, to try harder. Tim practically moving in. The sad edge on Dick’s playful smile as he pulled on the cowl.

 

Dick. What a gross, inexcusable abuse of trust. Bruce had outright claimed him, and as usual Dick’s first response had been to _give_ , freely. They were long past the phase where Dick’s answer to any request from Bruce was ‘How high?’, but that didn’t mean there weren’t subtler patterns hard-wired into their relationship, things Bruce was well-aware of and had had no scruples using in times of need.

 

God. Over the years Bruce has done much he’s not proud of, but from this there can be no moving forward.

He finds a restroom just in time to retch.

 

The truth of the matter is that he… put Dick in a position where being with him meant helping Bruce at a moment of great need, which he knew, must’ve known deep inside even then, was not something Dick had it in him to refuse. Time and again Dick had risked much to come through for him. And maybe there had been a spark of attraction to build from, but it is inconceivable that Dick might feel the same way Bruce does about him, because Dick is someone who knows right from wrong and them being lovers is morally abhorrent.

That much is not up for debate.

 

(--^^--)

 

Bruce’s mattress is soft. You wouldn’t expect it from the guy who dresses up as a scary animal to fight evildoing with his fists, but it’s true. Dick tossed and turned a little at first, but he’s completely at home in it now, encased in Bruce’s familiar scent.

 

“Dick,” Bruce calls as he gently shakes him awake.

 

Dick stretches, then opens his eyes with a smile. Everything is still a bit fuzzy. Bruce is standing by the foot of the bed, looking grave. Dick blinks away the remnants of sleep and sits up.

 

“What’s up?”

“Are you dressed?”

“Boxers.” Bruce’s, actually. “Why? What time is it?”

“Dick. I’m back.”

 

Dick frowns in confusion, until the studiously blank look on Bruce’s face clues him in as to what the other man meant. He heaves a great big sigh of relief and smiles.

 

“Thank God.” They’d all hoped and worked so hard!  

 

Bruce looks disconcerted at that, but soon regains the determined expression he wore at the beginning of the conversation.

 

“About this.” Bruce gestures to encompass the bed, Dick, the bedroom. It’s businesslike. “I understand why you felt you had to do that, but now we can get back on track,” he offers.

 

Dick’s heart falters along with his smile. There it is at last, the reckoning for his monumental stupidity. Oh, Bruce is back alright, and in full form. That… statement wasn’t just insensitive but completely absurd – exactly what you’d expect from Bruce, the original version, who can get under Dick’s skin like no-one else. Dick is being dismissed, discarded and demoted all in one. Something bitter in him wants to abandon the high ground and ask Bruce to expand on why _he_ had felt he had to eat Dick’s ass for what felt like the better part of an hour last night, and how far off track was _that_ , but even as the thought forms he knows he won’t do it. It’s just no use.

 

“Yeah, I don’t think that I can,” he says instead. His voice is level. He’s kind of proud of himself for it.

Bruce nods.

“I understand.”

 

Now _that_ makes Dick’s fists clench, going from 0 to 60 in a millisecond. What a fucking condescending _asshole_. He jumps to his feet in outrage.

 

“Do you? Really?”

Bruce, however, is as impervious as ever to the heat rolling off Dick in waves.  

“Yes,” he says simply, as if everything about their situation was crystal clear. “It was awful.”

 

Something lumps in Dick’s throat at that and he deflates, stung deep.

 

“Sorry about that.” Then, because he can’t help himself and if things between them are truly ruined, he might as well say it, “I liked it.”

Bruce can’t hide his surprise fast enough to escape detection. Dick narrows his eyes.

“Wait, what exactly do you remember?”

 

*  *  *

 

Bruce retracts – that is to say, he scowls and sets his jaw.

 

“That’s not important.”

“The hell it isn’t! You were always on my case about decisions made on ‘possibly unsound data’.” Dick delivers the last bit in a passable impression of Batman’s voice, dragging their entire lives into every single conversation as usual.

He does, however, have a point. Bruce’s memory is not reliable at the moment. Besides, he finds himself more distracted than he remembers being at Dick’s state of partial undress.

He could end the discussion, as he had often done. He doesn’t share Dick’s faith in talking about things, especially unspeakable ones as had taken place between the two of them. But he has already lost Dick to unilateral decision-making once. A second time might be truly irreparable. And after everything that happened, he owes it to Dick to… _try_.

 

“I remember” _intimidating, tricking,_ “imposing on you.”

Dick pauses to consider that.

“I guess you kind of did, yes. But if you’d done the same thing at any other time, my answer would’ve been the same.”

“No.” It’s the only thing he can think to say, the only thing that makes sense.

“ _Yes_ ,” counters Dick fervently. “I’ve wanted that – you – for a long time. I just never thought you could see me like that.”

“Because I shouldn’t.”

 

How could he tell Dick that as he had laid on the ground waiting to die, his mind was stuck on his worst failures? On the choices he made that had ended up causing so much grief to people he cared about. Jason. Barbara. On how much he too was sick of having everything gravitate around his inability to do better.

He couldn’t bear to ruin Dick too.

 

“It’s not right, Dick.”

 

*  *  *

 

At great difficulty, Dick gulps down a cry of protest. He has loved other people in his life, loved them hard and true, but his connection to Bruce is... nobody else comes even close. Nonetheless, Bruce is someone who lives by strict ideas of what is Right and Wrong, and if he has thrown them into the latter category, there is very little hope of changing his mind. 

Doesn’t mean Dick won’t fight for it with all he’s got. But before he can even begin, it seems Bruce isn’t done being patronizing.

 

“There are lines that must not be crossed. And I’m sorry I steered you wrong.”

 

Dick gapes for a moment in utter disbelief, then gets enough of his bearings back to hiss out “ _Fuck you!_ Do you really think I would’ve done any of that if I wasn’t having the time of my life? How spineless do you think I am?”

 

For a long time, there’s no reply. Dick feels ragged. He thought they had been over this; that Bruce had gotten to a point where he was able to acknowledge that Dick was a separate individual with his own set of beliefs that originated independent decisions. Maybe Bruce has regressed to somewhere before that? God, Dick’s tired, no, exhausted, and wound deep. Then comes Bruce’s voice, low and measured.

 

“It’s the opposite. I think you’re better than that.”

“Better than what? Loving you?” Bruce flinches at the word, just barely, but more than enough for Dick who knows him so well. He presses the advantage ruthlessly. “Sorry to disappoint, but I do. More than I know what to do with.”

 

Bruce looks pained by the admission, his face stuck on the tiny crease between eyebrows that Jason had jokingly referred to as ‘cognition error’.

The other Bruce didn’t make that face. He wasn’t at all unsettled by Dick’s affection or enthusiasm. This Bruce, though, Dick’s Bruce, never really knew how to deal with either. And for all he’s made a horrible mess of it, at least he’s trying to address the issue. That counts for something.

 

Dick runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Look, I can’t shove this under the carpet. I understand if it’s not something you want to pursue, and we can break things off and see what we can do to move on, but it was not a favor or a mistake. At least not on my part.”

 

Dick gives it a few seconds, but as expected there is no reply. He purses his lips and nods to himself, then goes in search of his clothes. He pulls his jeans over Bruce’s underwear (he’s damn well keeping it). Next thing, a hand closes around his arm. He looks up at Bruce and there’s such raw emotion on the man’s face that he can’t decode anything but the tidal intensity of it.

 

Bruce kisses him like it’s his last breath on Earth.

Then it’s urgent, messy and the best sex of Dick’s entire life. Everything is old and new between them, tingling with need and promise.

 

Afterwards, when they’re catching their breath and a tangle of limbs in the bed, Dick risks a smile.

 

“So, are we setting a new track?”

 

His makes his tone light, for the question is anything but.

 

*  *  *

 

Bruce remains silent. He brings a hand to cup Dick’s cheek, lets his fingertips slide along the side of his head. What could he possibly say? He doesn’t know how to not want Dick. Even when he forgot so much, it was still there, pulsing strong.

 

He grabs one of Dick’s hands, kisses his knuckles. His lips brush against Dick’s skin as he states firmly, “Partners.”

 

Dick grins sunnily, and Bruce’s heart skips a beat.

 

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you had a good time with this story :)   
> It's not beta-read, all and any mistakes are mine. I'm actually looking for a beta reader for my Bruce/Dick stuff; if you're a kind soul who'd like an early peek at it and don't mind giving me your honest opinion, leave a comment and we'll talk! 
> 
> Also (and maybe I should've said this at the beginning), this fic is the result of a self-challenge: to just get the story done, without being sidetracked by research, endless editing or writing a gazillion filler scenes. So if the TBI stuff is a bit off, that's bc I used it as a plot device without worrying much about the accuracy of symptoms, healing timelines etc. I hope that doesn't bother anybody too much.


End file.
